The Golden Quest

CHAPTER I. THE HEIR RETURNS

REX BRODFORD smiled as he stared from the window of his cab. Broadway lights were glimmering with early evening brilliance. Times Square presented a kaleidoscopic luster of ever-changing illumination.

Hurrying throngs beneath the vari-hued glow. Raucous horns; shrill whistles; the surflike roar of traffic — all formed a symphony that symbolized New York. The medley was music to Rex Brodford. He was back in the metropolis after years of absence.

Broadway’s glare showed Rex Brodford as a young man of less than thirty. His features were large, yet well molded. His heavy eyebrows were set beneath a broad forehead that was matched by the squareness of his chin. Smooth-shaven, his cheeks were dark with tropical tan.

Rex Brodford looked like a man who had returned from some foreign clime. The maturity of his sun-dyed face was evidence of the ten years that he had spent in Central America. Even his smile betokened him as a man who had overcome hazards. For Rex Brodford’s lips bore only the slightest upward curve.

Ten years in the tropics. Rex Brodford was reviewing the past decade as the cab shot away from the thickness of the Times Square traffic. While he watched the approaching glimmer of Columbus Circle, the young man found himself unconsciously thinking of his own affairs.

He had not expected to come back to New York. Not until he had received that cablegram from Cyrus Witherby, his uncle’s lawyer. Ten days ago, Rex had found the message awaiting him at the American Club in Tegucigalpa. It had announced the death of old Ezra Brodford, and had added that Rex was the sole heir to his uncle’s estate.

Uncle Ezra. To Rex, the old man had been no more than a name. He had never met his father’s eldest brother. He had never expected to be remembered in Uncle Ezra’s will. Thus the news had come from an unclouded sky. Chance — fate — whatever it might be — had decreed that Rex Brodford should return to New York.

The cab had passed Columbus Circle. It was veering left, twisting through a puzzling maze of byways.

The glitter of an avenue; then the darkness of a side street. Another avenue; a short run down a narrow thoroughfare that was lined with old brownstone buildings. The cab came to a stop.

Rex Brodford alighted. He looked up toward a dully lighted transom above a heavy door at the top of brownstone steps. He saw the number that he had given the driver. He had arrived at the home of his deceased uncle.

TAXI paid, Rex ascended the steps and rang a bell. A faraway clang answered. The door popped open; Rex Brodford faced a dry-faced servant, who viewed him with an air of semi-suspicion. Rex announced his name.

“Ah! Mr. Brodford!” The servant bowed in menial fashion, as he stepped back into the vestibule. “Step right in, sir. I had not expected you so soon.”

“Your name is Firth?” questioned Rex, as he stepped into the house.

“Yes, sir,” acknowledged the servant, his voice a trifle wheezy. “Your uncle’s servant, Mr. Brodford.”

“So I understand,” stated Rex. He extended his hand. “I am glad to meet you, Firth. Tell me, is Mr. Witherby here?”

“Yes, sir,” wheezed Firth, “and also Mr. Laspar. Mr. Cortland Laspar, an old friend of your uncle’s. Step right this way, Mr. Brodford.”

Firth conducted Rex toward the rear of a long hall. They came to a doorway where light glimmered from beyond heavy curtains. Firth drew one drapery aside.

Rex Brodford entered the room. He found himself in a book-walled library, where two men were engaged in conversation.

Both rose to greet the newcomer. One man stalked forward. Tall, stoop-shouldered, he thrust forward a long, clawlike hand and displayed a smile upon a lean face that was topped by a glistening bald head.

Rex Brodford knew that this must be Cyrus Witherby, his uncle’s lawyer.

Witherby cackled his own introduction. Then the lawyer turned to indicate the other man. Rex Brodford shook hands with a round-faced, gray-haired gentleman who wore a quiet, friendly smile.

“This is Mr. Laspar,” introduced Witherby. “Mr. Cortland Laspar, who has lumber interests in Michigan. An old friend of your Uncle Ezra. One of the last to see your uncle before he died.”

Witherby’s tone had struck a note of solemnity. The lawyer motioned Rex to a chair. The young man sat down and the others followed suit. Witherby reached beside his chair and drew up a portfolio.

“Let us come to business first,” decided the lawyer. “Mr. Laspar is leaving New York tonight; and I want him to know the details of your uncle’s will before his departure. You see” — Witherby paused to adjust a pair of pince-nez spectacles to his nose — “your uncle named administrators in case you did not claim the estate. Mr. Laspar is one of them.”

“One of those who will not be called upon,” inserted Laspar, with a genial chuckle. “Your arrival, Rex, lets half a dozen of your uncle’s friends avoid the duty of giving funds to charity. As the will now stands, all of your uncle’s estate goes to you.”

“Unless Rex should refuse it,” added Witherby. “That is why Mr. Laspar and the other administrators should know the details of the legacy.”

“I understand,” declared Rex, with a smile. “But since the estate was intended for me, I choose to accept it.”

“Quite naturally,” agreed Witherby. He was referring to the papers that he had taken from the portfolio.

“Here is everything for your inspection. If you wish, I can give you a brief resume of the items concerned.”

“All right,” nodded Rex.

“CONSERVATIVELY totaled,” obliged Witherby, in a dry cackle, “the estate will bring a trifle upward of fifty thousand dollars. That includes real estate and salable securities. Less mortgages and inheritance tax.”

“Fifty thousand dollars,” mused Rex. “Quite a considerable sum, Mr. Witherby. Less, though, than I supposed my uncle’s estate would be.”

“Quite right,” agreed Witherby. “And this sheet explains the answer. Your uncle, Rex, was very unfortunate in his investments. He tossed away nearly half a million dollars in worthless projects.

“For instance” — the lawyer leaned over and pointed to items on the list — “he invested fifty thousand dollars in Montana Shale. That company went bankrupt. Here is an item of forty thousand dollars. Calgary Oil. Another defunct corporation.

“These stock certificates, you understand, will be delivered to you. But I have investigated all of them and I can assure you that they are worthless. Here” — the lawyer ran his finger down the list — “is the most unfortunate of the lot. An item of two hundred thousand dollars. The controlling interest in the Quest Gold Mine.”

“Another dead company?” inquired Rex.

“Yes,” replied Witherby. “Just one more of your uncle’s unfortunate mistakes. Of course, Rex, I shall expect you to look into these investments for yourself. It is only right that you should assure yourself of their worthlessness. I hope that you will not be too critical of your uncle’s mistakes.”

“Why should I be?” returned Rex promptly. “It was Uncle Ezra’s money. He had the right to invest it as he chose. I always understood, though, that my uncle was a keen old chap. This one item, in particular, interests me: the Quest Gold Mine. Even the name savors of adventure: You say that this company also failed?”

“Not exactly,” replied Witherby. “It still exists — on paper. But I can assure you that the Quest Gold Mine offers no possibilities, despite the fact that your uncle had hopes for it up until the very day of his death.”

Rex Brodford raised his eyebrows questioningly. Before Cyrus Witherby could reply, Cortland Laspar leaned forward in his chair.

“I can tell you about the Quest Gold Mine,” volunteered the gray-haired man. “I, too, invested in it. Twenty-five thousand dollars, some thirty years ago, when it appeared to be a good gamble.

“Then funds failed” — Laspar paused reminiscently — “and the Quest mine was abandoned. Ten years — twelve years — passed. The mine was forgotten. The company needed funds, in order to exist as a corporation. Your uncle prevailed upon me to supply them.”

“You bought more stock?” queried Rex, in surprise.

“No,” replied Laspar, “I simply purchased the timber rights to the land on which the Quest mine is located. The tract borders on Lake Chalice, in Michigan. I bought some acreage on the opposite side of the lake and started a lumber camp there. I have been paying for the timber rights to the Quest mine tract; but as yet, I have not begun to clear it.”

“Then the mine might be worked again?”

“Not a chance of it! The very site of the shaft is gone. My foresters, surveying the ground less than a year ago, could find no trace of it. Somewhere, lost in an area of several hundred acres, is the forgotten shaft of the closed mine.”

Witherby nodded in corroboration of Laspar’s statement. Rex Brodford was about to speak when Laspar forestalled him.

“I KNOW what you are thinking,” remarked the lumber magnate, with a smile. “It would still be possible to excavate in hope of striking the old shaft. But that would be a costly process; and furthermore, recent events would prove it useless.”

“Recent events?” queried Rex.

“Yes,” nodded Laspar. “A few years ago, a new company purchased a large acreage adjoining the property of the Quest mine. This new concern — called the Chalice Gold Mine — has spent a fortune digging a shaft of its own. No results were gained, and the mine fell into the hands of shrewd swindlers who have been selling worthless stock.

“One man” — Laspar shook his head sadly at the thought — “even came to me with his worthless proposition. This fellow was a rascal named Jubal. He was calling on the old purchasers of Quest stock, trying to sell them shares in the Chalice mine. He had the nerve to think that people who had been foolish once would be foolish always.”

“Suckers often bite twice,” cackled Witherby.

“Thank you,” chuckled Laspar blandly. “I was one who did not. I practically threw this swindler Jubal out of my office. He never returned after that one visit. As for the Chalice mine, it is on the edge of failure. The company burrowed shaft after shaft without digging up a lump of pay dirt.”

“Which proves,” suggested Rex, “that the territory about Lake Chalice has no gold.”

“No,” said Laspar, “not entirely. Some worthwhile ore was mined in the old Quest mine during the early days of its operation. Yet the mine failed. Cold facts prove the inadvisability of new attempts in that district.”

As he finished speaking, Laspar glanced at his watch. He replaced the timepiece in his pocket and stepped to a corner where his hat and coat were lying.

“Almost train time,” the gray-haired man commented. He extended his hand to Rex Brodford. “I am leaving; but I hope to see you again in the near future. Should you find opportunity to come out to Michigan, visit me at my lodge on Lake Chalice.”

“And look over the Quest mine land?” laughed Rex.

“Yes,” responded Laspar. “The surface of it, at least, is under my jurisdiction. You will be free to roam the timber land as you please.”

Laspar shook hands with Witherby. Rex and the lawyer accompanied the lumber magnate to the door.

Firth appeared and started ahead, stating that he would call a cab. Laspar shook his head, remarking that he would have sufficient time to walk to the avenue.

WITH Laspar gone, Rex and Witherby returned to the library. The attorney began to go over the items in the lists of the estate. He noticed that Rex was not attending. Witherby spoke sharply, almost querulously.

“Perhaps we should leave these matters until later,” was his sour comment. The lawyer arose as he spoke and shoved the papers back into the portfolio. “Come to my office, after I have talked with the other administrators. I can then supply you with funds from the estate.”

“Sorry, Mr. Witherby,” returned Rex, following the lawyer through the curtained door. “I was thinking of a matter that we had mentioned. It occupied my full thoughts.”

“The Quest Gold Mine?” Witherby’s sharp query came when they had reached the hall.

“Yes,” admitted Rex. “Mr. Witherby, I have a hunch that my uncle was right concerning that investment. It is worth investigating.”

Witherby was picking up hat and coat; his garments had been left on the hall table.

“Folly runs in your family,” cackled the old lawyer. “The fortune you have gained is a slender one. Yet I presume you will be ready to waste it in following your uncle’s hopeless schemes.”

“The scheme may not be so hopeless,” Rex said slowly. “It is my feeling that I may be following a well-laid plan of my uncle’s.”

Firth had entered the hallway. The dry-faced servant was standing by the curtained door to the library. Neither Rex nor Witherby noted his watching.

“I intend to go to Michigan,” decided Rex. “Unless I decide to change my plans, I shall leave late tomorrow night.”

“No funds will be available,” warned Witherby.

“I can collect them later,” returned Rex. “We shall arrange that tomorrow, at your office. I have money of my own for the present.”

“You intend to look for the lost shaft of the Quest mine?”

“Exactly! Furthermore, I expect to find it.”

“You will waste your legacy—”

“Not by a one-man search.”

Firth, standing in the hallway, was reaching for a telephone. Plucking the instrument from a table, the servant stepped through the curtains into the library, carrying the long extension cord with him.

Rex and Witherby had reached the outer door. Neither had observed the servant’s action.

As Rex opened the door, Witherby plucked a gold-headed cane from an umbrella rack. With this last item of equipment added to hat and coat, the stoop-shouldered lawyer was prepared to leave. But as he stood on the brownstone door sill, Witherby could not refrain from caustic comment.

“SUIT yourself, young man,” he snorted. “Be like your uncle. Refuse to follow wise advice. Waste your legacy, if you choose, but never say that I did not warn you.

“That stock of yours is in safe-keeping, worthless though it is. You hold the controlling interest in the Quest Gold Mine. That, however, is your misfortune.”

“Just what would you advise?” questioned Rex, as Witherby paused.

“To forget it!” snapped Witherby. “Unless you could rid yourself of that idiotic investment. At two cents on the dollar, a sale of Quest mine stock would be a profitable transaction. But no fool would offer you such a proposition.”

Rex Brodford smiled as he extended his hand. Old Witherby accepted the farewell shake; then turned about, mumbling, and strode down the steps, leaning heavily on his cane.

Rex watched the lawyer click away along the sidewalk. Witherby, too, was heading for the avenue.

Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, the young man reentered the house.

Firth was stepping from the living room as Rex closed the door. Quickly, the servant replaced the telephone upon the table; then stepped aside as Rex approached.

The young man did not observe Firth’s action. Nor did he do more than scarcely notice the servant. For Rex, musingly drawing a cigarette from his pocket, was lost in thought as he strolled back into the curtained library.

Rex Brodford was thinking of his plan to visit Michigan, there to begin a search for the lost shaft of the Quest Gold Mine. Firth knew the trend of his new master’s thought. That fact was plain by the twisted smile that appeared upon the servant’s parchment-like features.

For Firth had already profited by learning Rex Brodford’s intention. He had made a prompt call by telephone, without Rex’s knowledge. A step had been made toward the culmination of some hidden, insidious scheme.

That smile which slowly faded from the lips of Firth boded ill for Rex Brodford and his future plans.